


Love, or Something Like It

by misaffection



Category: Stargate SG1
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-30
Updated: 2011-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-17 09:42:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misaffection/pseuds/misaffection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Extended version of a drabble I wrote for stargateland</p>
    </blockquote>





	Love, or Something Like It

**Author's Note:**

> Extended version of a drabble I wrote for stargateland

It’s been a long day. Sam is tired and hungry: more than anything she wants to go home and get a long bath, followed by pizza and beer. What she has to do is type up her report for Landry.

Shoving the door of her lab open, she takes all of three steps before she realises that something is out of place. Or rather, there is something here that was not when she left that morning: a sad-looking specimen of a potted plant sits on her desk. It’s lob-sided with slightly anaemic leaves and droopy pink flowers. Sam blinks twice, then turns at the familiar fizzing in her bloodstream.

Baal’s face is expectant, which leads her to the conclusion he put the plant here. Though why is beyond her.

“What is _that_?” she asks, waving a hand at the plant.

An eyebrow arches. “I thought that much was obvious.”

She rolls her eyes and counts to ten. “Okay,” she says in a tone of tried patience. “Let's try that again – why is it _here_?”

“I bought it for you.”

He says it slowly, as if explaining it to a small child. Sam is torn between the urge to punch him and wonderment at this unexpected development. She stares at him.

“Why?”

He shrugs and wanders past, hands shoved in the front pockets of his jeans. Sam watches as he sprawls carelessly in her chair, all long legs and boneless grace. She imagines that to the untrained eye he probably looks like a visiting civilian. Good thing she knows better, then.

“Isn't that what your type likes?” he asks, looking up at her curiously.

“My type?” she echoes in some disbelief. It occurs to her that it’s not too late to smack him. She puts her hands on her hips and fixes him with a steely glare. “Meaning what, exactly?”

“Women.”

“Oh, that type.” Her brain works through the conversation and she realises that he probably doesn’t mean to sound as insulting as he does. Then something occurs to her and she gives him a curious look. “You bought me flowers?”

Baal rolls his eyes and sniffs. “Isn't that what I said?”

It takes biting the inside of her bottom lip not to laugh.

But he’s remembered her favourite colour and made an attempt and it’s touching really. Her heart lifts and she graces him a gentle smile. His eyebrows lift as she saunters over. Bracing her hands on the armrests of the chair, she gazes down into his warm, brown eyes.

“Thank you,” she murmurs and then brushes his lips with a kiss.


End file.
